


Thicker Than Water

by Headfulloffantasies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Demon Dean Winchester, Demon John Winchester, Kidnapping, Stanford Student Sam Winchester, Violence, does it count as character death if a character has to die to become a demon, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Headfulloffantasies/pseuds/Headfulloffantasies
Summary: Sam escaped his abusive demon father two years ago. Now, John has found Sam and will stop at nothing to keep their family together.
Kudos: 14





	Thicker Than Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LivingDeaDGirl244](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingDeaDGirl244/gifts).



> Written for LivingDeaDGirl244 for the prompt: John and Dean are demons who are overprotective of human Sam and keep Sam in a protective bubble. But at 18 Sam wants to go to college so he runs away until 2 year later they find him and will stop at nothing to keep Sam home

“Sam Winchester,” Jessica Moore yelled across the Stanford campus lawn. A year into their relationship and Sam’s heart still skipped at the sight of her. She ran to him, her long blonde curls bouncing in the breeze. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed Sam deeply. 

“I missed you,” she teased when she pulled away.

“It was just a weekend,” Sam answered with a grin.

Jessica hummed. “Then maybe it’s time we moved in together. Then I won’t get so lonely.”

The moment solidified in Sam’s mind. The sun on the grass became a beacon. Jessica’s hair tickling his cheek. Her soft hand entwined with his. The rush of voices as fellow students passed unaware of how Sam’s world was changing. And the key Jessica held between her and Sam. 

Sam’s smile felt like it would grow wings and fly away. “You’re sure?”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Sam.”

Sam kissed her. 

Jessica pulled away first. “You’re going to make me late for Dr. Schelli’s lecture.”

“I’m okay with that,” Sam kissed her again.

“I’m not,” Jessica placed her hands against Sam’s chest and gently pushed him away. “I’ll see you tonight. I expect you moved in to my apartment by eight.”

“Deal,” Sam grinned. 

Sam floated through his classes and his study hall. He raced across campus to his dorm the second his classes ended. Sam’s room held no decorations. He had no family photos on the walls, no trinkets on the shelf, no clues of a life before Stanford. His sheets came from the campus store. The books stacked on the shelf belonged to the library. The stickers on his laptop were from the previous owner. 

Sam grabbed his duffle bag from under the bed. His entire closet fit into the bag easily. He swept his books on top of the mess and zipped it shut. Sam tucked his laptop under his arm. He paused to open the drawer of his desk. In the back corner, behind a couple broken pencils, Sam pulled out a single photograph. He refused to look at it. He stuffed the picture in his pocket and tore across campus to Jessica’s apartment.

The key turned in the lock. Sam opened the door to the apartment he’d spent many nights studying and doing other activities. Jessica kept her place clean and airy. She didn’t go in much for décor either. Instead, she had plants in every corner and lamps to keep the cramped space lit. Sam wound his way through the living room and kitchen to the bedroom. 

A note lay on the bed. Sam picked it up. “Sam, I cleared half the closet for you. I’ll be at band practice until seven thirty. Dinner’s in the fridge. Love, Jessica.”

Warmth spread through Sam’s chest as he hung his shirts in the closet. It had been years since he’d had a home. A place he could actually call his. He intended to keep this little piece of safety he’d carved out with Jessica.

Sam grabbed a drink from the fridge and familiarized himself with the bathroom situation. He poked around the living room and opened the linen closet. When he couldn’t put it off anymore, Sam withdrew the worn photo from his pocket. His side of the bed had a nightstand where he’d left a toothbrush for nights spent together earlier in his and Jessica’s relationship. Now, Sam slipped the picture into the drawer. His eye caught on the image before he could close the drawer.

A family of four smiled up at the camera. Little baby Sam sat on his mother’s lap. Her radiant face turned towards Dad. Dad laughed at the camera and held up a squirming six-year-old Dean.

Sam’s heart squeezed. Of the people in the photo, only Sam remained. Sometimes he woke up screaming about the way it had ended. Two years of hiding. Two years of running from that bloody night. 

“Hiya Sammy.”

The voice turned Sam’s blood to ice. 

“Dean,” Sam turned. His brother stood in the dark doorway. No longer the child in the photograph. Dean looked exactly as Sam remembered. Like a hunter, coiled and ready to attack. Like a knife ready to stab into Sam’s back. 

Stars exploded through Sam’s vision. The pain didn’t register until he hit the ground. His skull felt split like a melon. The stars formed into the hulking shape of Sam’s father. John Winchester held a shotgun loosely in his hands. 

The last thing Sam saw were the eyes of his father and brother as they stood over him. Black as night. That darkness surged up to meet him and crashed over his head, drowning Sam in hellish black.

Sam woke up to darkness. His face pressed into old leather that smelled like whiskey and gunpowder. He knew that smell and the feeling intimately. Sam sat up. The backseat of his father’s Impala hadn’t changed in two years. Classic rock rumbled softly from the speakers and the car purred under Sam’s boots. The dark of night out the window was pierced only by stars between whisps of cloud. 

The silhouettes in the front seats didn’t turn. Sam wasn’t fooled. They knew he was awake. They just didn’t care. Sam considered trying the door. He’d jump from the car at a hundred miles an hour into a volcano of boiling lava if it meant he’d get away. But when he tried to move his arms, ropes tugged at his wrists. 

Sam groaned. “Is tying me up really necessary?”

John answered with severe calmness. “You’ve proven a tricky bastard Sam. Really, I should be proud. If only you’d use them brains like you should.”

Sam couldn’t supress the cold fingers of fear tiptoeing up his spine. He hadn’t heard his father’s voice in two years. Not since John had tried to kill him.

“We’re almost there,” John announced. 

Out of the dark loomed a farmhouse. Sam’s stomach fell to his toes. He knew this house. He’d lived here for seventeen years. His mother had brought him home from the hospital to this house. In front of the house, the tree planted over Mary’s grave stood taller than Sam now. He had no memory of the planting. He’d only been six months old. Planting the tree had been one of John’s rare moments of thoughtfulness. 

The car screeched to a halt next to the front porch. John and Dean got out. Sam tensed as Dean came around to open the back door. He wouldn’t go back to that house. Not after all he’d done to escape in the first place.

Dean opened the door. Sam kicked out. His boot connected solidly with Dean’s knee. Dean grunted. Sam scrambled backwards. His back hit the other door. If they had to drag him out of the car so be it. 

Dean growled. He advanced with murder in his eyes. 

“Dean.” John’s voice sounded like a slap in the dark.

Dean halted like a dog given a sharp tug on its leash. His face went blank, all the rage replaced with passive calm.

Sam’s eyes widened. Dean may have been the more loyal son, but he’d always sassed John and questioned him. Even after becoming a demon, Dean had kept his spark of humor and cheek. “What did he do to you?” Sam whispered.

The horror clawing at Sam’s chest distracted him. The door at his back opened. He would have tumbled onto the gravel if it weren’t for John’s massive hands gripping his shoulders and dragging him upright. 

“You can walk or I can carry you,” John growled in Sam’s face. Sam swallowed hard. His pride got the better of him. 

“I can walk.”

John kept one hand on Sam’s shoulder as he steered him up the freshly painted porch steps and into the house. The squeak of the door sent memories crashing over Sam’s head. His breaths came short. He never wanted to come back here. John flicked the lights on. Nothing had changed. The living room still had the ugly red rug Sam had used to hide the devil’s trap he’d stuck Dean in. Sam suspected the floorboards underneath had been replaced. The stairs led up to the bedrooms. Dust hung over everything as though John and Dean had forgotten that humans usually lived in the spaces they occupied. 

John yanked Sam to a halt in the center of the living room.

Dean took up a position in the corner like a soldier on guard duty. He stayed silent. Sam watched Dean out of the corner of his eye. He’d never seen his brother so quiet. Dean always had a quip or a sharp joke. His jokes became crueler after he became a demon, but he’d still retained that Dean smirk. John must have done something to Dean to wipe that grin off his face. As if Sam didn’t have enough reasons to hate his father.

John removed the ropes binding Sam. Sam took his chance. He wound up and punched John in the mouth. John didn’t so much as rock with the blow. He lifted a hand and touched his lip. Then he smirked. 

“That ain’t no way to treat your old man, Sammy.”

Sam stayed silent. A rage with the force of a hurricane roared in his gut. He’d rather die than stay in this house a minute longer and John knew it. 

John grabbed Sam’s arm in a vise grip. Sam bit down on a hiss of pain. “Now that our family has been reunited, I think we should sit down for a meal,” John said. “I expect you’re hungry.”

“No,” Sam lied. His stomach chose that moment to growl.

John turned and pulled Sam towards the kitchen.

Sam dug in his heels. He didn’t want to go in the kitchen. 

Sam remembered that day. He could taste the copper of blood in the air when he came home from school. The front door slamming. Just fourteen years old. Dean laying on the kitchen floor. John kneeling over Dean. A knife in John’s hand. The same knife driving into Dean’s chest. Sam’s throat raw with screaming. Dean, cold. Dean, unresponsive. John dragging Sam away. Sam’s hands sticky with blood. 

And then Dean’s eyes opened. His chest lifted with breath. His eyes. Dear god, his eyes. No longer candy apple green. Black as night. Black as death. Black as Hell.

Sam had cried. He’d sobbed. He’d screamed. It hadn’t changed anything. John sat him down on the couch with a hand on his knee. 

“Dean’s a proper demon now,” John said, pride colouring his words. “You will be too, once you turn eighteen. I know it’s a lot to understand. But it’s all part of the plan. We’re going to celebrate later.”

John left Sam there with tear tracks on his face to come to grips with Dean’s new demon-ness. Sam started planning that exact moment. It was too late for Dean. Sam wasn’t going to be anywhere near John when he turned eighteen.

It took him years to prepare. But Sam did it. Only days before his eighteen birthday Sam squirreled away the money for a bus. He pretended to be sick. And then, when John left for a hunt, Sam ran. 

Of course, it didn’t go according to plan. Dean found him with his hand on the front door and a duffle bag over his shoulder.

“I thought you were sick?” The question held no reproach. Dean stood innocently in the kitchen doorway with a smirk on his face. “Going to see a girl?”

Sam’s heart had jackrabbited against his ribs. “Just going,” he’d said softly.

Dean’s eyes had widened. He took three steps forward. Then paused. He looked down with his brows drawn together. Sam had practically choked on relief that the devil’s trap under the living room rug worked.

Dean’s eyes lifted to Sam’s. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

Sam bolted. He left Dean frozen in place looking like a wounded puppy instead of a monster from nightmares.

Sam got all the way across the country. He covered his tracks, hopped from place to place, changed his name, cut his hair, lost the Kansas accent. A year later, Sam allowed himself the possibility that he could move on. He started his new life. He enrolled at Stanford. He met Jessica.

Oh no, Jessica. The thought of her ripped Sam back to the present. 

“What did you do to Jessica?” Sam asked. The question burned in his throat. 

John paused in his efforts to shove Sam across the floor. “We didn’t touch your pretty little girl, Sammy. You’re going to pay her a visit yourself once you’re properly changed.”

“You mean once I’m wearing black eyes?” Sam challenged.

“Exactly,” John smiled. 

“Then what are you waiting for?” Sam clenched his fists to hide their trembles. “Just do it!”

John scowled. “Can’t just yet. See, demons aren’t all that different from the humans they used to be. They keep all the nastiest traits they had in life. And you, Sam, you got a rebellious streak a mile wide. We’re going to have to weed that out of you before you’re ready to turn.”

Sam’s stomach flipped. “No,” he said. He drew himself up to his full height. “I’ll never let you turn me.”

John studied Sam for a long moment. Sam felt John weighing his options. Considering how hard to push. Funny, he’d never hesitated to press too hard before Sam ran away.

“Dean,” John barked.

Dean straightened to attention. 

“Take Sam up to his room. I’m sure he’s tired.”

Dean moved woodenly. He dropped a hand onto Sam’s shoulder. Sam shrugged him off. “I know the way.”

Dean followed Sam up the stairs. The landing at the top made Sam’s breaths come out funny. The family portraits still hung on the yellow wallpaper. Not a single one existed after Sam hit six months old. Not after Mary was killed. The lie of the happy family remained preserved in the frames under a layer of dust. Mary didn’t know. Mary smiled as though she believed her husband was just a mechanic. She didn’t know the monster under his skin. She didn’t know what John would do to her sons. What he planned to do to her.

Dean prodded Sam in the back to keep moving.

“Do you ever wonder what might have happened if she’d lived?” Sam asked. 

Dean said nothing. Sam lifted his feet and let them carry him to his old bedroom. He paused at the threshold. “What is John planning? Why can’t he just leave me alone?”

Dean shoved Sam through the door. Sam stumbled. He turned. Dean stayed in the doorway.

“Dean, talk to me,” Sam pleaded.

Dean turned to leave.

Sam snagged his sleeve. “Say something! What’s wrong with you?”

“You left me,” Dean snarled. 

Sam recoiled. Dean paced back and forth in front of the doorway like he was the one trapped. 

“You ran on my watch,” Dean growled. Sam realised Dean was forcing the words between his teeth. Like every word cost him effort. 

Sam’s heart squeezed. “What did John do to you?” 

Just like before, Dean refused to answer. He reached out and slammed the door in Sam’s face. Sam was thrown into darkness. He scrambled for the light switch. The single bulb illuminated the room. Sam’s stomach plunged again. The doorknob on his side of the door had been removed. Sam bolted for the window. It was boarded over. Sam was trapped until John decided to let him out. 

Sam punched the wall in frustration. All that running, for what? He was right back where he started. And yet not quite. Sam had learned a thing or two in his time away from the Winchester home. 

Sam checked his pockets. His phone and knife were gone. He should have known. John was a paranoid bastard. Fine. Sam did an inventory of his old bedroom. It seemed like the only room in the house John and Dean had bothered to clean. His sheets smelled musty, and the wallpaper had faded, but the model airplanes still hung over the bed. The glow in the dark star stickers still clung to the side of the dresser. Sam opened the closet. It was empty, but for the clothes hangers. Sam grinned. 

The wire hanger took some work to straighten out. But once he had a sharp end, Sam got to work. The old floorboards scratched easily. It took the work of mere minutes to carve the pentagram and sigils into the floor around the door. Sam sat back on his heels. No demons would get past that trap. Including his father. 

Sam didn’t sleep that night. He sat on the edge of his bed and listened to the creaking of the house. It had been so long; Sam couldn’t distinguish between the natural settling of the old house and the sounds of Dean and John shifting about downstairs. Every bump and groan made Sam glance at the door, his muscles tightening as he waited for John to come for him.

Sam snapped out of a doze at dawn. Weak light poked between the boards on the window. Sam’s stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.

The door opened. Sam leapt to his feet. John stood on the other side of the door with Dean over his shoulder. John took in the devil’s trap with a sour expression.

“Now that ain’t polite,” John drawled. His eyes snapped black. Sam recoiled. John lifted a hand a clenched a fist. Sam flinched. The floorboards around the door buckled. A fissure cracked through the center of the pentagram. 

Sam’s stomach dropped. Every muscle in his body tensed, waiting for the inevitable punishment. Instead, John turned and walked away. Dean stepped into the room and grabbed Sam roughly by the arm. 

“Dean,” Sam said softly so John wouldn’t hear. “I’m sorry for leaving you with him.”

Dean’s face swiveled to glare at Sam. His jaw worked like he wanted to say something. He shoved Sam forward. Dean corralled Sam down the stairs and into the living room. 

John sat on the couch waiting for them. Dean pushed Sam into the center of the room and left him there, taking up his guard position in the corner again. Sam watched Dean with unrestrained concern. He couldn’t help but hate the changes to Dean’s personality.

“What did you do to him?” Sam asked John.

John scowled. “Dean is a good soldier. He obeys orders. Unlike you.”

Sam’s empty stomach churned. “No,” he said. “You did something. He’s different.”

Dean stared impassively at a point over Sam’s head.

John shrugged. “You’ve never understood the war we’re waging. I don’t need sons or family, Sam. I need soldiers. And soldiers stay quiet. They obey. They don’t get emotional.”

It was only because Sam was still watching him that he noticed how Dean’s jaw clenched. 

Understanding bloomed cold in Sam’s chest. “You tortured him.”

“I trained him,” John corrected. “I’ll train you too, when you’re ready. But first you have to be ready to take orders. Dean!”

Dean snapped to attention.

“Bring in our subject.”

Dean left the room. Sam stood and tried to disguise how his knees shook when was alone with John. John seemed completely uninterested in Sam while Dean was gone. He sat and studied the leather journal he always kept in his pocket. Sam’s hatred for John boiled in his gut. He wished more than anything in the world he had a weapon. He’d like nothing more than to bash John’s head in.

Dean didn’t come back alone. He dragged a woman chained hand and foot into the room and tossed her to the ground at John’s feet.

Sam jerked backwards. The woman’s long blonde hair hid her face. Her shaking limbs betrayed her fear. 

“What is this?” Sam asked.

“A test,” John stood. He grabbed the woman roughly by the hair and twisted her to face Sam. She shrieked, baring a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth.

“A vampire?” Sam asked incredulously.

“The monsters are an infestation,” John growled. “They feed on humans who rightfully belong to demon-kind.”

Sam resisted rolling his eyes. He knew his speech by heart. His earliest childhood memories featured John pontificating on the subject of monster eradication. 

“You’re going to kill her,” John said. 

Sam shook his head. “I’m done doing your dirty work.”

“Kill her now.” John produced a wicked edged machete and extended the handle to Sam. Sam’s hands itched to sink the blade into John’s chest. But it wouldn’t work. Even decapitation couldn’t kill a demon, especially not one of John’s calibre. 

Sam stepped back. “No.”

John’s eyes flashed black. “Do as I say, Sam.”

Sam took the blade. He approached the vampire. His stomach turned. Memories of hunts haunted his mind. The vampire hissed as Sam neared. The machete shook in Sam’s hand. The vampire suddenly lunged. She tackled Sam to the floor. The vampire launched herself on top of Sam, gripped his head in both hands and bashed his skull against the floor. Sam yelled. He tasted blood. He struck blindly with the blade. The vampire screamed. Her weight shifted and Sam threw her off. He scrambled away. His head throbbed. His limbs went weak. Sam slumped to the ground.

The vampire crouched, curling one hand over the slice in her arm. She prepared to spring again. John’s hand coiled through her hair again and yanked her back. His eyes had shifted to black. He reached down and picked up the dropped machete. 

John sneered at Sam. “Useless,” he muttered. “I’m going to teach you a lesson, boy.”

John tossed the vampire aside. He bore down on Sam with murder in his hell black eyes. He raised a fist.

Dean was suddenly between Sam and John. 

“Let me,” Dean reached for the machete in John’s hand. John relented. Dean took the blade and swiftly removed the vampire’s head from her shoulders. 

Sam closed his eyes. The smell of blood became overwhelming. His empty stomach threatened to revolt. 

Footsteps thumped towards Sam. Sam opened his eyes. John stared down at Sam. The rage in his face left no hope that maybe Sam would escape with just a bump on the head and a split lip. Sam steeled himself and returned the glare with all the hate in his soul for his father. Something flickered in John’s expression. 

“Dean, get Sam cleaned up,” John said. 

Dean knelt and slung one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder. Sam let Dean pull him to his feet. The living room spun and filled with sparks of flashbulbs. Sam’s vision cleared just in time to lift his feet up the first step of the hall stairs. Dean half carried Sam to Sam’s room. He shut the door behind them and gently sat Sam on the edge of the bed. 

Sam felt like he was swimming underwater. Everything shifted around him and slid in and out of focus. 

Dean suddenly filled Sam’s vision. His green eyes narrowed and his mouth settled in a straight line. Dean lifted a cloth and dabbed at the blood on Sam’s chin. The cold of the cloth anchored Sam back in reality. He took a shuddering breath. 

“I saw you,” Sam said.

Dean pretended not to hear him. He continued wiping the blood from Sam’s face.

“I saw you,” Sam repeated. “You protected me. Thank you.”

Dean pressed the cloth too hard. Sam hissed.

“I’m going to kill him,” Sam whispered. 

Dean went still. 

“I am,” Sam insisted. “I don’t want to kill you too, but I don’t know who’s side you’re on.”

Dean’s jaw worked. He lifted the cloth to Sam’s eye. Sam hadn’t noticed the bruise until the cold relieved some of the sting. 

“Say something,” Sam whispered. “Please.”

“I can’t,” Dean forced out. 

Sam caught his eye. “Can’t what? Can’t betray him?”

“I can’t,” Dean shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“What?” Sam slapped Dean’s hand away from his face. “What do I not understand? I know he hurt you. I know he hurt me, and he’s planning to hurt both of us more. How can you be on his side?”

Dean grit his teeth. With effort, he said, “We’re family.”

“Family isn’t supposed to hurt.”

Dean studied Sam silently. Sam wished, for the first time, that he’d asked Dean to come with him when he ran. He missed Dean’s jokes, his hard-won laugh, even his stupid leather jacket. Sam missed Dean ruffling his hair and checking to make sure he’d eaten that day. For seventeen years, Dean had parented Sam when John couldn’t be bothered. The division between them hurt like a severed limb. Sam told himself it was the price to get away from John. It didn’t make it hurt less.

“Dean!” John bellowed. “Bring Sam down here.”

Dean stood and took the cold cloth with him. He jerked his head towards the door. Sam stood and followed without protest. Dean said nothing else, as if he’d used up all his words. 

John waited where they’d left him in the living room. The vampire’s blood soaked into the carpet and pooled over the floorboards.

“Dean,” John snapped. “Clean this up.”

Dean knelt and grasped the body by the wrists. He dragged it past Sam and out the front door. Sam heard the disconcerting series of thumps as Dean hauled the corpse down the porch steps.

John watched Sam like a hawk. John folded his hands behind his back and paced in front of the couch. “You’ve always been a pain, you know that?” 

Sam resisted the urge to say “thank you”, but only barely. He kept his focus glued on the blood on the floorboards.

“Whether you like it or not,” John continued. “You have a responsibility to this family.”

“No!” The shout surprised Sam. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “You’re not my father!”

The blow knocked Sam to the floor. His chin smacked the floorboards. He tasted blood again. 

“You better believe I’m your father, boy,” John spat.

Sam stayed on the floor; half curled on his side. It wouldn’t do any good to fight back. Sam closed his eyes and resigned himself to the beating.

Hot, sticky wetness touched his fingertips. Sam opened his eyes. The vampire’s blood seeped across the floor and pooled under his hand. Sam trailed his fingers through the mess. 

“You’re an absolute waste,” John growled. “You’re going to learn how to take orders if I have to kill you to do it.”

Sam traced a pattern in the blood under his hand. John didn’t notice; Sam’s body blocked his view. 

John snarled, “You left us. You abandoned the cause, after all those years I put up with you. You ungrateful little slime.”

Sam’s head spun. If he just stayed still, maybe John wouldn’t notice.

“I should put you out of your misery,” John said. “Are you even listening?”

John thundered closer. Sam counted each step. He waited until the ghost of John’s hand hovered over his shoulder. Then Sam moved. He reached up and caught John’s leg and rolled his whole body. John fell with a shout. Sam bounded to his feet and skittered backwards out of reach. 

John pulled himself up with a curse. “I’m going to tan your hide for that, boy.”

Sam lifted his chin in defiance.

John tried to take a step. His foot stuck. He looked down. 

The devil’s trap Sam had drawn in blood shimmered under John’s boot. He roared. 

The smile that broke over Sam’s face felt like victory. “You’re finished, old man.”

Sam collected himself. He organised his mind and drew up the words he’d memorised from the ancient text. 

“Exorcizamus te, omnis-,”

“What are you doing?”

The exorcism choked and died in Sam’s throat. Dean appeared in the doorway; eyes wide as he took in the scene.

“What are you doing?” Dean repeated.

“Dean,” John barked. “Get me out of here.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to the devil’s trap. He looked up at Sam. Sam couldn’t read his shuttered expression. 

“Were you going to exorcise me too?”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “No, I couldn’t do that.”

Dean swallowed hard. The words were costing him. “But you can do it to our father?”

Sam growled, “After everything he’s done, hell yes.”

“Dean, shut up and free me,” John bellowed. 

Dean glanced between Sam and John. His shoulders hunched. Dean took one step forward. Sam’s heart dropped. Dean came to a stop beside Sam. Sam closed his eyes. Dean’s hand landed on Sam’s shoulder. Sam flinched. He waited for Dean to push him aside and free John. 

“Family isn’t supposed to hurt,” Dean said.

Sam’s eyes flew open.

Dean’s hand fell from Sam’s shoulder. He turned and walked out of the house. 

John’s scream of fury rattled the window panes. Sam’s ribs felt too small for his lungs. He gasped on a breath and swallowed hard. 

Sam finished the exorcism. The Latin tripped over his tongue. Black smoke dribbled from John’s mouth. John growled and screamed and howled. The smoke poured between his lips and hit the ground, scorching the floorboards as it descended. With one last shudder, John coughed up the last of the demon smoke. His dying shriek scraped down Sam’s spine. John collapsed. 

Sam’s knees shook. His legs threatened to give out from under him. It was over. He couldn’t believe it. A ringing filled Sam’s ears. He was distantly aware that he might be in shock. Somehow, he stumbled towards the front door. A fantasy flitted through Sam’s head involving a jug of gasoline and a crater where the house once stood. Instead, he grabbed the set of car keys off the hook by the door and let the screen door slam behind him. 

Sam found Dean leaning against the hood of the Impala. 

Dean grinned when he saw Sam approached. “You did it. The little nerd grew up into a fierce warrior after all.”

Sam blinked. “You’re chatty now.”

Dean nodded. “Feel like I’m thinking clearly for the first time in two years.” He cut eyes at Sam. “Don’t get sappy on me, but you saved me. For real.”

“So now what?” Sam asked. He shifted his feet, still uncomfortable around Dean.

“Now I keep hunting,” Deans stuffed his hands in his pockets. “There’s a whole world of monsters out there to gank.”

Sam nodded carefully. His stomach sank at the thought of Dean continuing John’s crusade.

Dean reached out and ruffled Sam’s hair, just like he used to when they were kids. Sam squawked, exactly as he always had. 

“I’m not building a demon army,” Dean said with a glint in his eye. “I just have a particular skill set that might as well not go to waste. And anyways, the more monsters I kill, the safer you are.”

“You don’t have to keep killing,” Sam offered.

Dean shrugged. “I’m good at it, though. And it’ll keep me out of trouble. For now.”

“Dean, I-,” Sam started, unsure how to put his feelings into words. 

“Go,” Dean said. “Go back to your girl. Be safe. If you ever need me, I’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. He opened his arms. The hug settled something in Sam’s chest. He’d missed this. He’d missed Dean. Even with black eyes, Dean was family. 

They parted ways. Sam went back to Stanford with the assurance that he had a devil watching out for him.


End file.
